


The Right Thread

by flashforeward



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Trans Illya, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward
Summary: Sometimes when things unravel, something new is built in their place.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	The Right Thread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TinTurtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinTurtle/gifts).



> Written for Fandom Trumps Hate!
> 
> Writing this was...kind of an adventure! I hope you like it, TinTurtle!!

Pull the right thread and the whole tapestry will unravel.

**I**

It all began when he arrived at work to a request from Medical: _Urgent: I. Kuriyakin report to Medical ASAP_. Swallowing hard against the threat of panic, he kept his head up as he weaved his way through the hallways towards an appointment that he assumed would end in his dismissal at best and incarceration at worst.

What he dreaded the most was having his memory erased, forgetting all about UNCLE and the work he’d done here. And forgetting Napoleon. That thought almost brought him up short. The trust and friendship he had developed with Napoleon wouldn’t only end, it would _shatter_. This secret Illya had been keeping for so long would see to that. And though Illya wouldn’t remember it, he hated thinking of how Napoleon would feel once the truth came out.

Illya pulled in a deep, steadying breath and forced himself onwards.

There was no avoiding it.

**II**

Sitting on the cold examining table, Illya did his best to keep himself steady and calm. The last time he’d been here had been for the intake physical and that had been simple enough: they checked his heart and lungs, hearing and sight, and drawn some blood. The bloodwork had worried him, but it had been long enough since he started that he’d let himself become complacent. Let himself think that they hadn’t noticed.

“Good morning, Mr. Kuriyakin,” the doctor said as he came into the cubby-hole of a room, clipboard in hand. “How are you today?”

I’m fine,” Illya said, flinching at how short he sounded. He cleared his throat. “I’d just like to know why I was called in to medical today?”

The doctor nodded, flipping through the chart as he sat in the rolling chair in the corner. “It looks like you’ve been taking a testosterone supplement?”

Illya nodded, mouth going dry.

The doctor marked his answer on the chart. “And how is the hormone administered?”

“I have pills.” Illya’s voice was quiet, the words a harsh rasp in the back of his throat. He hoped the doctor wouldn’t ask _where_ he got the pills. That would be too much to explain.

“Ah. That’s what we were afraid of.” The doctor set the clipboard aside and met Illya’s gaze. “Your body is processing the pills through your liver. We’ve been monitoring your levels, because we didn’t have an alternative, but we think we’ve come up with something that will be safer.”

Illya stared, clenching his jaw so he wouldn’t gape open-mouthed at the man. “Excuse me?” he managed after a moment, hardly breathing, hardly daring to believe they weren’t taking it away. Were _helping_ , rather.

The doctor rolled a small tray table over and laid out some items on top: a vial, two needles, a syringe. “We’ve been conducting tests on intramuscular administration of testosterone since early in your tenure here, in case the effect of the pills on your liver concerned us.”

Illya swallowed hard. “And?” he asked, wondering if this was all some sort of dream.

“Once we settle you on the right dose, you won’t need to come in more than twice a year for blood work.”

“What do I do?”

The doctor walked Illya through the steps for administering his dose and disposal of the needles and syringes.

“We’ll have to monitor your first few injections, make sure you’re doing it properly,” the doctor said as he packed up a kit for Illya, tucking the hormone vials, sealed syringes, and needles into a little case before handing it to him. “But you should be able to administer at home by the end of the month. How do you feel?”

Illya paused, eyes still fixed on the case in his hands, eyes fixed on the black cloth that hid his lifeline from prying eyes. “Confused,” he finally said, raising his gaze to meet the doctor’s. “You knew all this time but…,” he trailed off, uncertain how to finish. The doctor waited, patient, and Illya cleared his throat, tried again. “You never said anything? Never _did_ anything?” He can’t come out and say it, can’t voice the fear he’s been living with for years: that his life would be over if anyone knew. That he would lose everything he had worked so hard for.

The doctor held his gaze as he answered, the words settling over Illya like a blessing, “There was nothing to say.”

**III**

Illya was sixteen the first time he took a dose of synthetic testosterone. He was alone in a foreign country, dodging suspicious looks every time he spoke. So he’d grown quiet - well, quieter. He observed, watched, learned. Slowly built the shield that would protect him when he finally worked up the courage to walk into the dispensary and ask for what he wanted.

No. _Needed_.

He had the story all planned - how the lethargy ran in his family, how his father had grumbled over not having access to the synthesized hormone so many men in the wealthier nations could use to reinvigorate themselves. He had a whole script written in his head, more words than he had ever said all at once.

But he hadn’t needed them.

He’d felt small when he walked through the door, felt like every eye was on him, reading him, judging him. But when he walked up to the counter and explained that he was there for testosterone tablets, the apothecary simply smiled knowingly and bottled up a supply.

Later, swallowing that first tablet, Illya felt like everything had changed.

Over the years, as he fought and clawed his way to a body that felt right, whenever things felt particularly impossible, he would think back to those first few days and how it had felt to hold that synthetic hormone on his tongue for the first time. How his future had finally felt real, like there was hope for him. Like he could truly be himself.

But that hope was always contingent: no one must ever know.

He watched the stories of Christine Jorgensen, Michael Dillon, and Roberta Cowell pass through the news. He listened to how people spoke of them - others like him who had defied the world to be themselves - and he knew it would never be safe for anyone to know. So he kept himself to himself, reserved and aloof, resigned to spending the rest of his life alone.

**IV**

The fact that UNCLE had known and said nothing made Illya nervous.

As he packed up his things from his locker and clocked out for the night, he mused on the problem: who else might know? Logically, the doctors at UNCLE knew because they had to run blood panels when he began working there and the testosterone in his body wouldn’t look like a typical man’s. But there was still a part of Illya that worried he’d somehow given himself away.

It was impossible. His documents were all in order, nothing about his body would give anything away without close examination, and it wasn’t something he talked about.

But still, he worried.

And with the worry came a stab of guilt for the one person he _should_ have told: Napoleon.

His partnership with Napoleon had been both sudden and organic - paired together on a case shortly after Illya began at UNCLE, the two had meshed well and worked together seamlessly. When Mr. Waverly suggested a permanent partnership, neither had been surprised or opposed, and they’d been working together ever since.

But still, years later, Illya never told Napoleon.

Partly, he reasoned on the walk to the subway, it wasn’t Napoleon’s business - it wasn’t anyone’s business, really. He was who he was and that was that.

But, the small guilty voice in the back of his head countered, Napoleon trusted Illya with his life and Illya couldn’t trust Napoleon with this?

Unrelated, Illya knew - he, too, trusted Napoleon with his life.

But still the guilty voice persisted.

He sat in the subway car, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed ahead, trying to suppress the gnawing worry and icy guilt that kept washing over him. _Did_ he owe Napoleon an explanation? Did it matter? Napoleon had never known him as anything except a man, as anyone except Illya, so why risk losing his friend and ally by broaching the subject.

UNCLE might accept him because he was a good agent, but he couldn’t be sure Napoleon would even _try_ to understand.

Napoleon was a good man and a good friend, but Illya was different in a way that didn’t cross most people’s paths and he knew Napoleon would have no frame of reference. So unless something drastically changed in their relationship, Illya decided, there was no reason to tell him.

**V**

“You want us to what?” Napoleon asked, brow furrowed as he studied Mr. Waverly as though looking for a crack in the older man’s mask, some hint that this was all a joke.

“You heard me, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said in his calm, collected tone.

Napoleon glanced at Illya, but his partner looked unfazed by the details of this assignment. Napoleon shook his head and leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced. “Sir, this seems...ill advised,” he said. “Won’t such a pretense draw more suspicion?”

“Under any other circumstances, probably. But given the scenario and what we suspect Thrush is up to, this is the best option.”

Once again, Napoleon shot a glance at Illya, but once again the other man remained stoic and silent. Napoleon blew out a sigh. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t see how this could be anything other than a disaster.”

“Oh?” Waverly cocked his head to the side, gaze steady on Napoleon. “And why is that?”

Once again, Napoleon glanced at Illya. Once again, Illya remained still and silent. Napoleon licked his lips, shifted his gaze back to Waverly. He wondered what Illya was thinking, how he could keep so quiet faced with an assignment like this. Though as he fought to find the right phrasing, the right way to voice his concerns, he thought he knew. Illya was always careful when he spoke. If he had something to say, especially on so delicate a topic, he would take his time and say it right the first time.

Napoleon was a little less polished.

“In what world does it make sense for two men to be publicly and obviously involved?” he asked, blundering straight to the point.

Waverly’s expression darkened, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “You’ve been given your assignment, Mr. Solo, I suggest you begin studying your files.” He closed the folder in front of him and stood, wordlessly dismissing the two agents.

Napoleon sat back, arms crossed, and flicked his gaze from the folder detailing his cover to Illya. “What do you think?” he asked.

It wasn’t that Napoleon cared about the cover itself - he’d had relationships with men and with women, despite societal norms insisting he was only allowed to pursue women in such a manner. It was, rather, said societal norms. What _would_ the Thrush agents they were going to be investigating think? He was certain the nature of their fake relationship would, in and of itself, blow their cover. Men who pursued men and women who pursued women didn’t live out in the open.

“I think,” Illya said, his quiet voice breaking through Napoleon’s thoughts. “That they’ll be so focused on what we appear to be that they won’t suspect that we could be spies.”

Napoleon considered this for a moment. He still wasn’t convinced, thought the ruse would attract more attention than t would divert, but he gave a slight nod of assent. “Fine, we’ll try it. But at the first sign of things going wrong, we pull out. Deal?”

“Agreed.” Illya’s voice was quiet, like his mind was elsewhere, and he hadn’t properly met Napoleon’s gaze since before the meeting. Napoleon longed to ask what the matter was, but they only had a few hours to memorize their covers and head out to the field.

Heart to hearts would have to wait.

**VI**

Illya’s whole body had gone cold when Waverly had explained their cover: “You’re going to pose as a couple.”

Waverly knew - had to know. Medical wouldn’t keep something like that from Illya’s direct superior. But until that moment, until those words came out of Waverly’s mouth, Illya had at least been able to _pretend_. Like he’d pretended for so long that he wasn’t attracted to Napoleon, wasn’t quickly falling for his partner in a way that could be dangerous or detrimental. Because if he wanted men...didn’t that make him a woman? Did Waverly consider him a woman, even though Waverly had never known Illya as anything except a man?

There was logic to Waverly’s scheme - a young homosexual couple living in the open _would_ draw attention, but the focus would be on their otherness and Napoleon and Illya’s true reason for being in the neighborhood - finding out what a known Thrush operative was doing there - would be more likely to go unnoticed. But the thought of it still filled Illya with a clammy sense of fear, his body suddenly distanced from his mind in a way he hadn’t felt for years.

Growing up, Illya hadn’t really thought about his sexuality - it came second to the body he was forced to inhabit. And he’d known that, even if he sorted all that out, no one would ever want him the way he was. Half a man, stitched together, all scars and synthetics. It wasn’t until he’d been working at UNCLE for a few years that he’d started to realize it wasn’t just his _gender_ that was wrong. The first time he saw Napoleon Solo, handsome and demure, he had known. He wasn’t just a false man but a gay one as well.

Which made him wonder if he’d been wrong all along. Was he really a man, or was he just a woman yearning for more opportunity in life? Had this life he’d scratched out for himself been the true lie?

And now…

Had Waverly seen through it all?

He knew who he was. He did. He had spent the first years of his life fighting preconceptions that he knew were wrong. He had run away from home, made his way to a country where he barely spoke the language, found a way to make his body match his mind at least in part. He had been living fully as the man he was for almost fifteen years now. It scared him to think the adults in his life could have been right.

That he was just confused.

That he was-

“Illya?” Napoleon’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. Illya jerked his head up, looking around to meet Napoleon’s gaze. “Are you all right?”

“I.” He swallowed hard and forced a nod. “Fine.” He hiked his bag up onto his shoulder and let his locker swing shut, giving Napoleon a nod as he walked out of the locker room. He could feel his partner’s gaze on his back as he strode into the hall and his heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. But he had to keep going. He had tonight and the early hours of the morning to prepare himself for this mission and he would need all of that time.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he whirled around, fists up, ready to fight, feeling cornered in a way he hadn’t for years. Napoleon took a step back, raising his hands. “Hey,” he said, voice calm and quiet. “It’ll be okay.” There was a tug of a smile at the corner of his lips and something about that on top of everything else filled Illya with a strange sense of calm.

He forced a smile of his own. “Right,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**VII**

On a bookshelf in his bedroom, behind a line of first-editions he never touched, lay a photo album.

When he got home that night, he set the undercover briefing on the coffee table for later and went to the bookshelf, shifting aside the books and pulling out the album. It’s plain, no indication on the cover as to what’s inside. He sat on the edge of his bed and gingerly opened it to the first page of photos. Himself and his siblings, shortly after his youngest sister’s birth. He slowly turned the pages, watching himself grow up and grow distant. The further along in time, the further to the edges he stood, the more he hunched his shoulders.

The last photo in the album was one he’d had taken after his final surgery. He wore an open shirt and while his hands were in his pockets, his shoulders were back. He was smiling, his face lit up. The scars on his chest were a garish white, but as Illya traced his fingers over the picture he couldn’t help but see beauty in them.

He closed the album and returned it to its hiding place, shifting the books back in front of it. He went about his pre-mission routine, mind clearer now, reassured by revisiting his journey. It hurt sometimes, looking back at where he came from, but it also helped. This life he lived was no phase or lie, no matter what the world might try to tell him.

He sat on the couch with his dinner, carefully reading through his undercover file, all but one worry gone from his mind: pretending to be in love with Napoleon was the easy part, the hard part would be keeping Napoleon from realizing it _wasn’t_ pretend.

**VIII**

The house was a quaint ranch set back from the road. Modest and unassuming, it was the type of house you wouldn’t pay much attention to. Perfect for an unorthodox couple. There were two bedrooms at the back, a family room/kitchen at the front, and a dank and dusty basement. Illya and Napoleon set up their base of operations in the basement - it was more of a storage area than a gathering place, which meant no visitors would expect to be allowed downstairs. One of the bedrooms was set up as an office for Napoleon, whose cover was a writer working on his next novel. The master bedroom had a comfortable double bed and when they reached it in their exploration of the house, Napoleon immediately sat down on it, smiling broadly as he tested the mattress with a gentle bounce.

“I’ll take the couch,” Illya said, flicking his gaze away from Napoleon.

“Nonsense!” Napoleon stood and crossed to Illya where he stood awkwardly in the doorway, clapping a hand on his shoulder and steering him back into the hallway. “We’ll alternate, of course.”

Illya nodded, allowing Napoleon to guide him back across the hall to the basement stairs. They were narrow, and Napoleon easily slipped in front of Illya to lead the way down. They had set up the files they had already - what little they knew starting this operation - now they had to determine a course of action and lay out their schedule for watching their supposed neighbour.

The Thrush agent, a gentleman by the name of Conrad Cole, had rented out an upstairs room from the widow across the street. He had been in the house for a week now and while UNCLE had theories as to what a Thrush agent was doing in a quiet suburb, they had no proof. Illya and Napoleon weren’t just there to spy on Cole through binoculars at the window but to ingratiate themselves with the neighborhood in general and Cole and his landlady in particular to try and discern what Thrush is planning.

Their leading theory was that Thrush was preparing to conduct some sort of experiment on the people of the neighborhood in preparation for a larger scale attack on the country and, eventually, the world.

“Do we want to approach first or wait for the neighbors to introduce themselves?” Napoleon asked, settling back in his chair, arms crossed.

Illya sat across from him, pulling their scant profile on Conrad Cole closer. “I think we should wait,” he said. “We don’t want to seem too eager.”

Napoleon made an impatient noise and Illya ducked his head to hide a smile. “You’re right,” Napoleon said. “We’re already going to draw so much attention.” He stood, pacing back and forth in the small space. “What is Waverly _thinking_?”

Illya clenched his fists tight to keep from flinching, to keep from thinking of all the ways Napoleon would be disgusted by him if he knew the truth. “I don’t like it either,” Illya said, keeping his voice quiet so Napoleon couldn’t hear the shake in it. He kept his gaze fixed on the folder in front of him, not ready to meet Napoleon’s eyes.

“Men like this don’t just live out in the open together, it isn’t done!” Napoleon sat back down and leaned an elbow on the table, chin in his hand. “This could get us killed,” he said quietly.

Illya looked up, brow furrowed. “Because of Thrush?”

Napoleon shook his head. “No, because of people. Just regular, everyday, normal people who think there’s something wrong with two men or two women being together.” Napoleon rolled his eyes.

Illya stared. His heart raced in his chest. He leaned forward, wanting Napoleon to continue, when the doorbell echoed down the stairs.

“I’ll get that,” Napoleon said. “You don’t look quite as presentable.”

As Napoleon trooped up the stairs and closed the basement door, Illya looked down at himself. He wasn’t wearing anything he didn’t normally wear, except that was the problem. He was just in his shirtsleeves with his holster and gun over the shirt. His coat was upstairs, draped over the back of the office chair.

With a shake of his head, Illya quietly crept up the stairs and crouched by the door, ear pressed to the wood to try and hear what was going on.

**IX**

The woman at the door looked positively ancient, though their files only listed her age as 75. She was bent over, leaning heavily on an elaborately carved cane. She sized Napoleon up, eyeing him through the fringe of white hair that fell across her forehead. She blew out a breath, a humph sound accompanying it.

Napoleon smiled. “Hello! You must be one of our neighbors,” he stepped back, gesturing for her to enter the house. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll see if we’ve unpacked the tea yet.”

“Save your hospitality, young man, I haven’t the time,” the woman said. She twisted the top of her cane and lifted it up, revealing a single shot pistol which she aimed squarely at Napoleon’s chest. “Didn’t think we’d sort you out this quickly, did you? That’s the trouble with being one of the good guys, you’re always overestimating your own abilities.”

Napoleon took a slight step backwards, slowly raising his hands. “It was never Cole, was it?” he asked, the barest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The woman gave a sharp laugh. “We knew you’d follow that trail,” she said. She came forward a few steps, her gait much surer than her stature suggested. “Who would look twice at a little old lady when that strapping young man was swanning about?” She shook her head. “That’s your problem, you know, you’re too certain you understand the status quo.”

“Are we?” Napoleon asked, furrowing his brow. He took another step back, nearer the basement door.

“Of course you are!” the woman followed him as he moved, taking a step as he did. “And when you try to break expectations it’s laughable! Two _bachelors_ living alone in a suburban house? Did you think that would fool us?”

Another step back, another step closer to the basement door. Napoleon shrugged. “Did you think we were trying to?” he asked.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you, Mr. Solo? I know precisely what you’re doing.” She surged forward, pressing the barrel of her gun to his chest and glaring up at him. “You’re stalling for time, but that simply won’t do.” She pressed him back against the wall, his head thumping hard against the wood. “Do you know what’s lovely about having been set up for some time?” she asked.

Napoleon shrugged. “You know who throws the best barbeque?”

The woman grinned. “We know how all of the houses are laid out.”

The basement door opened and Illya came out, hands up, Cole behind him with a gun only slightly bigger than the old woman’s.

**X**

Illya was more than a little embarrassed that Cole had gotten the drop on him. He’d been crouched by the basement door, straining to hear what was going on upstairs, when a hand came down heavy on his shoulder and turned him around to face the barrel of a gun and a stoic face looming behind it.

There was a thump from the other side of the wall and the man - Conrad Cole, Illya presumed - pulled Illya up and shoved him towards the door. Illya opened it and stepped through to find an unassuming old lady holding Napoleon at gunpoint.

“It appears our cover didn’t work,” Napoleon said, meeting Illya’s gaze and shooting him a wry grin.

Illya rolled his eyes. “Evidently,” he said. Then Cole prodded him in the back, urging him towards the living room. Napoleon and the old woman followed and their captors sat them in dining room chairs and Cole tied them down while the woman kept her gun fixed on them. It was a small single shot and Illya probably could have disarmed her before she got a shot off, but Cole still had his gun, which held six rounds.

Illya sat, trying to ignore the dig of the rope around his wrists and ankles, mind racing. He needed a plan and a way to convey it to Napoleon without their captors understanding.

But the one thing he needed, the one thing he didn’t have, was _time_.

**XI**

“How are we going to handle this?”

“I already told you, you fool!”

Cole and the woman were in the kitchen, arguing in harsh whispers that carried further than they likely realized. Illya and Napoleon missed most of what they said, but enough scraps came through that the plan was obvious: dose them with truth serum and interrogate them, then bundle them off to Thrush headquarters if possible or kill them if not.

“They knew we were coming,” Napoleon said, leaning his head over as far as he could so he could speak quietly.

“I think they wanted us to come,” Illya replied. He was working his wrists, trying to loosen up the ropes, but they remained stubbornly tight. “This was a trap.”

Napoleon nodded. “The question is, how do we get out of it?”

Illya considered for a moment. “It’s too late to try to convince them we’re exactly what we appear to be,” he said. “But maybe we can twist their assumptions.”

Napoleon met his gaze. “How so?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Illya swallowed hard, forced himself to hold Napoleon’s eye as he spoke. “We convince them we left UNCLE to be together,” he said, glad when his voice didn’t catch awkwardly in his throat.

The grin that spread across Napoleon’s face was almost a relief, but Illya still felt too-hot, his stomach aching with fear and hope and the effort to quell both.

“It’s worth a shot,” Napoleon said.

Illya glanced beyond him at the doorway. The voices had subsided.

This plan, flawed thought it was, was the only way forward.

**XII**

“This will go easier if you tell us what we want to know,” Conrad Cole said. He was prepping syringes while the old woman - Napoleon was sure they would never find out her name - sat across from himself and Illya, studying them. Preparing to interrogate them.

“We don’t know anything,” Napoleon said. “Not really. We took the case as an opportunity, if you will.”

“An opportunity for what?” the old woman asked, resting her chin on the top of her cane.

Napoleon glanced at Illya, then quickly away, timing it precisely. “Let’s call it retirement,” he said.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “I know for a fact UNCLE retirement involves a memory wipe and relocation.”

Napoleon nodded slowly. “Yes, well, you see why we had to make a pretense,” he said. “Look like we’re on an assignment and then just...disappear.”

“You expect us to believe two of UNCLE’s top agents wanted to disappear?” Cole asked. He barked a laugh. “Try again, Solo.”

“It’s true,” Illya said, his voice soft and quiet, his gaze fixed on the carpet at his feet. “This cover, it was our idea. Close enough to the truth we wouldn’t confuse our neighbors, unbelievable enough that UNCLE would never suspect we’d just walk away.”

“Wait. So you’re really…,” Cole stepped back, as though being near Napoleon and Illya was risking some sort of infection. His lip pulled up in a disgusted sneer. “You really are a couple of fags?” he asked.

“Conrad,” the woman snapped. “Can’t you see when you’re being lied to?” She stood and crossed to the filled syringes Cole had left on the end table. “Let’s find out the truth.”

“Please,” Illya said, his voice cracking. He raised his head, meeting the woman’s eyes. “I swear it’s true. We just,” he glanced briefly at Napoleon, then back to the woman. “We just want to be together.”  
  
“Unlike my colleague, I am not a fool, Mr. Kuriyakin,” the woman said. She lifted one of the syringes and jabbed it into Napoleon’s shoulder, sending the serum into his bloodstream.

“No!” Illya shouted, his voice suddenly distant in Napoleon’s ears. “No, damn it, no!”

The room dimmed, Napoleon’s eyes fluttered, he struggled to keep them open but they felt too heavy and soon enough the world was black.

**XIII**

“You know what happens when he comes to, Mr. Kuriyakin,” the woman said. She handed the first syringe to Cole, then picked up the second. “Anything you want to say before you join him?”

Illya glared up at her. “We’re telling the truth,” he said.

“Two strapping young lads such as yourselves?” She laughed. “Bullshit, Mr. Kuriyakin. You’re hardly a couple of queens.”

Illya struggled against the ropes as the woman moved to his side, but there was no escape. The syringe plunged into his arm and he joined Napoleon on the path to the truth.

**XIV**

Napoleon blinked his eyes open. The woman was seated across from him, Conrad was at his side, and Illya was out next to him, head lolling on his shoulder.

“Hello, Mr. Solo,” the woman said, smiling unpleasantly. “What do you know about our plans?”

“Nothing,” Napoleon said even as he fought to say nothing. The word felt too big, slurring out of his mouth.

Cole brought his hand down across Napoleon’s face, the sting hot on his skin. “Tell the truth,” Cole snapped.

Napoleon looked up at him. “You’ve made sure I have to,” he said. “And we don’t know anything.”

“Napoleon.” Illya’s voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “If they kill us-”

“They won’t,” Napoleon said, shifting his gaze back to the old woman’s. “We’re bargaining chips.”

“If they do,” Illya insisted, “I need you to know something.”

“What’s that?” Napoleon asked.

“Shut up!” Cole’s hand crashed across Napoleon’s cheek again, a bright pain that resonated through his jaw.

“I love you,” Illya whispered, the words loud in the quiet after the slap.

Cole rounded on Illya, but the other man was up, loose from the ropes. He caught Cole’s wrist and twisted, turning him around and wrenching his arm up until it popped. Cole bellowed a scream, half rage and half pain, and fell to his knees. Illya kicked him hard in the ribs then settled his foot on Cole’s neck. He grabbed Cole’s gun from the coffee table and trained it on the old woman who hadn’t moved, and while he kept his eye on her he leaned over and slipped his pocket knife into Napoleon’s hand.

**XV**

“I see that none of that went according to plan,” Mr. Waverly said, closing the file with their report and setting it aside. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the conference table, and studied Illya and Napoleon. “Are you two quite all right?”

Illya nodded once as Napoleon said, “Fine.”

After they’d turned the tables, things had moved quickly. Napoleon got free and called Waverly to relay the information and an UNCLE extraction team had arrived, taking Cole and the old woman (they still didn’t know her name) into custody and checking Illya and Napoleon for injuries before sending them back to HQ.

It had been a day and a half, and Illya had managed to avoid being alone with Napoleon. They’d had to write up their reports and go through the proper debriefs and it had been easy to not properly talk to Napoleon. But after this meeting, Illya knew his time would be up. Napoleon would corner him and he’d finally have to deal with everything that had happened.

He can say it was the serum talking, but the serum lowers inhibitions and ‘the truth serum made me do it’ wasn’t the kind of defense Illya needed right now. He wished there was a convincing way to prolong this meeting, but they’d covered everything and Waverly wasn’t one for idle chatter. And besides, neither was Illya, so the whole exercise would only raise Napoleon’s suspicions further.

As if on cue, Waverly stood and gave a sharp nod. “You’re dismissed,” he said. “Get some rest and be sure to finish your paperwork.” This last he directed pointedly at Napoleon before he left the room, the door closing on Illya’s last hope of never having to deal with what had happened.

Illya stood, trying to seem like he had places to be and wasn’t just fleeing his partner.

Napoleon laid a gentle hand on his arm and Illya couldn’t look at him, kept his eyes fixed on Napoleon’s fingers on his forearm.

“We need to talk,” Napoleon said, voice quiet.

Illya nodded but didn’t say anything, his body rigid. Napoleon stood and faced him, their bodies inches apart. Illya could feel Napoleon’s gaze on him, but he still didn’t look up.

“Did you mean it?” Napoleon asked. “Or was it just a distraction?”

Illya tried to speak, tried to force the lie out, but he couldn’t get the sound out. He took a step forward, cautiously raising his chin and meeting Napoleon’s gaze. “I,” he started, the sound less than a whisper, but he didn’t know what he was going to say and before he could decide, Napoleon inched forward and their lips met in a brief kiss.

“Did you mean it?” Napoleon asked again, his breath hot against Illya’s lips.

“Yes,” Illya said, surging forward to kiss Napoleon again. He broke it off quickly, pulling back and sitting down. “But you don’t know everything,” he said, looking at his hands clasped on the table. He hoped he was right, hoped UNCLE hadn’t passed the information on to Napoleon. He couldn’t think of a reason for them to do so, but did they _need_ a reason?

The whole thing was still weighing heavily on Illya’s mind. That UNCLE knew - had known - and hadn’t told anyone or said anything or fired Illya. None of it made sense to him.

“What’s wrong?” Napoleon asked. He sat back down beside Illya and took his hand, interlacing their fingers.

Illya cleared his throat, kept his gaze fixed on their hands. “I’m not like other men,” he said. “I. I wasn’t made right.”

“You were made just fine,” Napoleon said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice - he didn’t know what Illya was talking about.

“I was raised to be a girl,” Illya said, whispering the words. “Everyone told me I was. My body said I was. But…,” he glanced up, caught Napoleon’s gaze and looked away, the confusion and concern in the other man’s gaze too much. He pulled his hand out of Napoleon’s and shifted his hands to his lap, out of reach. “But I knew I wasn’t. So I made myself a man.”

Napoleon’s hand, warm and soft, cupped his cheek and Illya looked up at him, heart hammering. “You were made just fine,” he said again and brought his lips to Illya’s in another kiss, this one longer and deeper and definitely more than they should be up to at work, but Illya let himself get lost in it for a moment. They broke apart and Napoleon rested his forehead against Illya’s, holding his gaze. “All right?” he asked.

Illya pulled in a breath. “You don’t think this makes me less of a man?” he asked.

“Do you think that about me?”

“Of course not, but you’re…,” Illya trailed off, the word _normal_ too hard to say.

“You’re not, either,” Napoleon said. He straightened up and stood. “We ought to get back to work,” he said. “I say we continue this...conversation tonight? My place? I’ll cook.”

Illya smiled and stood, brushing his shoulder light against Napoleon’s as he moved towards the door. “That sounds lovely,” he said.

**

Pull the right thread, and the whole tapestry will unravel.

But you can make something new with what’s left.


End file.
